dean winchester.

it was a name that, for the past decade, had been frequently on the tip of everyone's tongue around. sometimes, it was spoken with admiration, maybe even jealousy. other times, it was huffed out with exhaustion as a flag of impending trouble, or as a threat to the tots of supernatural society. lately, it was in midnight janes' after a good laid. if it ain't moose, then it's dean-o, the suspect in a blasted hunt. mostly both.

and right now, he would've expected to hear his name pronounced in a okay way, not in a kind of recognition with his back aching, his sweetcake handed over to him, blood flood on his nose and mouth, and a foot planted on his heaving chest, keeping him pinned down the ground.

who's shoe? yours.

growling, he shot one hand out, clamping around your ankle with a squeeze then a barbaric yank in attempt to get you off making a christmas tree out of him, "new body, huh?" he grumbled through his gritting bloody teeth, recognizing you even in that brand new meat suit— you, the deadly sin of lust.

"i should've drowned you better."